


sink your teeth (before i disappear)

by orphan_account



Series: deadweight [2]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Biting, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Brat Peter Parker, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, M/M, Vampire Beck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22286437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The rest of their meal was spent quietly, enjoying each other’s company the best they could while the static hum still buzzed between them. Peter watched Quentin’s eyes follow his hand as he brought it to his neck, casually rubbing the spot where the most prominent scar lay. The one that acted as a confirmation to what they already knew, years ago.That they belonged together, for however long that time would allow.(Or, Peter and Quentin celebrate their fifth anniversary.)
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Series: deadweight [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604176
Comments: 18
Kudos: 133





	sink your teeth (before i disappear)

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a break from "like a prayer" to hastily write a one-shot in this universe because I miss these idiots. I wrote this all in one sitting and I have no idea how I did it. Please excuse any mistakes because I am tired and have been writing for like, six consecutive hours. :') I don't _think_ you need to read "deadweight" beforehand, but it probably will help with context for the universe and their relationship. But, if you're just here for horny biting, you're probably safe. 
> 
> All feedback is loved and appreciated. <3 Thank you!

Louisiana heat was sweltering, worse than anything they had up north. It came accompanied with a cloying humidity that kept Peter’s forehead slick with sweat while his clothes stayed damp and stuck uncomfortably to his body. No wonder these cold-blooded assholes decided to make New Orleans their epicenter.

“You know, you’d be a lot more comfortable if you just took that turtleneck off,” Quentin said conversationally, not even looking up from his paper as he sat smugly in the suite lounge chair by the open window. Why the hell was he even reading that thing? Vampires didn’t give a shit about human politics; they had their own messed up circus to deal with.

“Shut up,” Peter grumbled, realizing he’d been tugging at his collar to keep from feeling suffocated and that Quentin was undoubtedly right. Not that he planned on admitting it. “I look good.”

“You look stuffy.”

Peter rolled his eyes and turned back to the mirror. Okay, he did look a little stuffy, but this was all part of the plan. The plan that he’d inadvertently set into action the moment he’d optimistically slipped on the turtleneck over an hour ago. Quentin had come up behind him, gave him a once over, that dark look in his eyes that always promised something good, and nosed along his neck, wrapped in fabric. It was the frustrated groan that rumbled from the center of Quentin’s chest that had set the plan into action.

Peter wasn’t taking this turtleneck off for _shit_.

He ran his fingers through his hair one more time in a futile attempt to train an errant curl that just didn’t want to stick into place. Good enough. Peter turned to Quentin, still pretending to be interested in human affairs. “Are you ready?”

“Been ready, sweetheart,” Quentin replied, smiling just enough to show off a sharp canine. “Are you sure you want to wear that?”

“Yeah. Do you not like it?” Peter looked down at himself like he hadn’t just spent the better part of an hour primping in front of the full-length mirror. He knew damn well that Quentin liked it— a sleek black turtleneck fitted tight to his chest, tucked into black pants that may have been even tighter than said sweater; his heavy steel-toe boots, not as alluring, but just in case he needed to give someone a swift, painful kick.

“You look amazing,” Quentin hummed. He didn’t even look up from his paper.

Okay. Someone just got a little closer to winning his prized swift, painful kick.

“You didn’t even look.”

Quentin sighed dramatically—of course, he always did _everything_ with a dramatic flair—and tossed the newspaper to the side. God, he was still a terrible actor. Peter didn’t buy this exasperated, outdated, nuclear-husband routine for a second.

“Peter, darling—” Peter narrowed his eyes, tilted his head to the side. What the fuck was Quentin playing at? “I’ve seen you every day for nearly five, long years. I know you look amazing.”

“That’s not the point,” he grumbled, despite his cheeks reddening and the fact that every word of praise, no matter how backhanded, still made him feel like a giddy little kid. “Let’s just go. We have reservations.”

And he had a game to play.

Reservations were at some upscale French restaurant with a name Peter wasn’t even going to begin to butcher and menu that Quentin swore was “vampire friendly.” The whole establishment was, which Peter found particularly hard to believe. It was swank and modern, exposed brick and clean linen table clothes, soft ambient lighting in the form of Edison bulbs strung along the industrial piping of the ceiling. In his experience, vampire-owned establishment stuck to the generic Party City motifs. Lots of red and black and craft store gothic architecture.

This…this was nice. Romantic—especially considering that their dates typically included a lot more gore and guts and high-fives.

Quentin’s glass of suspiciously red liquid clinked as he set it down, folding his hands together beneath his chin. The smile he gave Peter was fond, dopey almost, and at times, Peter almost preferred the feral hunger that usually encompassed those blue eyes. It scared him less.

“What?” He subconsciously dabbed at the corner of his mouth, just in case.

“I wasn’t lying, you know,” Quentin said, “I do think you look amazing.”

“Yeah?” Peter said, suddenly flustered. His fork missed his cut of chicken altogether. “You must want something.”

“I do,” Quentin replied, easily and honestly. “I think you know what.”

If someone had told Peter it was possible to get even hotter, he would have called them a liar. But, as it stood, the fever beneath his skin still steadily crawled up the meter, and his cold, dead fucking boyfriend wasn’t doing much in way of cooling him down. In fact, the slow draw of an expensive leather loafer up his calf beneath the table only proved to feed the furnace.

Quentin smiled, showing teeth. His eyes narrowed to his neck, hidden by the collar of his sweater. “You’re not as clever as you think.”

“Who said anything about being clever?” Peter retorted.

“You’re right.” Quentin’s floor trailed higher, just to the bend of Peter’s knee, and drug slowly back down. “I guess the word I was looking for was _tease_.”

Shit. Why the hell did he think he could win this game when Quentin was so fucking good at playing? Sweating his ass off in a turtleneck in the middle of the blistering south was turning out to be all for naught.

Peter’s leg jerked, slamming into the table, rattling Quentin’s glass of what was most-certainly-not wine. “That doesn’t even make grammatical sense.”

Quentin raised an eyebrow.

“You’re not as _tease_ as you think,” Peter explained. “See? Doesn’t work.”

Oh, Peter clocked that twinkle in his eye. He was enjoying this. Because after all this time, Quentin still enjoyed the hunt, the thrill of the chase, and when Peter felt accommodating, he’d been known to indulge him.

And this, well, it was their anniversary, of sorts. What better time to indulge?

“Always so smart.”

“Smart enough to tell you no.”

Quentin stopped, mid-sip, eyes narrowing. The playfulness vanished, leaving something harrowing in its place. He lowered the glass, licking the thick red left on his lips slowly. Peter watched every movement, stomach flipping in anticipation. There wasn’t a single cell in his brain smart enough to tell Quentin no.

“Is that so?” Quentin asked.

Peter nodded at the glass. “I think you’ve had enough for the night. You don’t need me.”

The tension in Quentin’s face softened, his expression going lax. That meant nothing good. The calm, reserved wave that washed over his demeanor was nothing but threatening. “You’re right,” Quentin agreed calmly. “This is much sweeter.”

Peter winced, collecting himself quickly, so not to give away the hurt that threw a wicked punch right to his gut. He forced himself to remember their last frenzied fuck after a particularly messy job—Quentin rutting into him with inhuman speed, hoisting him against the wall, lost in the scent of the blood from a recently well-fed vampire; how he’d raked his fangs along Peter’s neck and _begged._

But when Peter had said no that time, he’d meant it. It was the agreement they both had for the thing between them to work. Quentin only fed on him when he was in danger, needed healing, or special occasions. Because it was always in the heat of the moment, with Quentin’s teeth sunk into the tender flesh of his throat, that Peter’s good sense vanished. Telling Quentin that he didn’t want to take it further, that he didn’t want to cross that final line, became more and more difficult with every bite. Until they mutually decided it was better to stop, and Peter’s neck and thighs eventually healed leaving behind only silver, thin scars.

It was a hard, _really_ hard, rule to follow but they managed. Mostly.

And so now, the thing was—Peter _knew_ that Quentin was bullshitting him, but the mere _notion_ that he might prefer anything other than _his_ blood triggered a fit of insane jealousy. He was being baited, and damn if he didn’t swim right up to the hook and take a bite.

“Good,” Peter said finally. “Have them bottle you some up then. We can bring a couple back to New York.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” Peter parroted and shoved a bite of food in his mouth. He glared at Quentin’s untouched plate, the filet mignon that he’d ordered for show, and made a mental note to _actually_ have the server box that up.

The rest of their meal was spent quietly, enjoying each other’s company the best they could while the static hum still buzzed between them. Peter watched Quentin’s eyes follow his hand as he brought it to his neck, casually rubbing the spot where the most prominent scar lay. The one that acted as a confirmation to what they already knew, years ago.

That they belonged together, for however long that time would allow.

They returned to the hotel without incident. Quentin kept his hands mostly to himself during the cab ride back, save for the occasional squeeze of Peter’s knee, followed by a strained smile that didn’t quite reach the predatory glare aimed at the high collar of his turtleneck.

And just to be a brat, Peter continued to play at the hem, tugging at it nonchalantly, but never enough to show a whole lot of skin.

The elevator ride to their suite, however, didn’t go as swimmingly.

Peter ended up pressed against cool metal, sweater untucked, with Quentin’s hand reaching beneath the fabric, blunt nails scratching at his skin until he whined and arched into him, panting and tilting his head to expose his neck, cursing his own fucking wardrobe decision when Quentin pointedly didn’t take the invite to bury his face there.

Asshole.

By the time they made it back to room 225, Quentin had a tight grip on Peter’s hips, grinding against him, breathing heavy against the crown of his head, telling him to hurry while Peter fumbled with the card key. The light on the door blinked green, the lock clicked, and Peter barely registered anything after that. In a blur of motion, he found himself in their room, against a wall, with Quentin’s full weight pressing against him, hands all over his arms and chest.

“I should rip this to shreds,” Quentin growled. “Right off your pretty little body. How about that?”

Peter whimpered, shaking his head, despite that being the very thing he wanted. Confessing that particular fantasy wasn’t part of the game.

“No?” Quentin grabbed a handful of sweater and twisted his grip, tugging hard until a tear ripped between them. “Maybe you should have thought twice before wearing this.”

Peter looked down the best he could at the exposed skin of his bicep, the tattered black fabric that Quentin had torn like a wet piece of paper, and gasped. Distantly, he thought that maybe he should be a little irritated, after all, this was his good sweater but—holy shit, oh _god_ , that was so hot.

Quentin’s crazed stare drilled a hole right through him, his chest heaving, his nostrils flared. Even though the clothing, Peter knew Quentin could still sense the pump of blood through his veins, evident by the white gleam of fang jutting from his open mouth.

Their eyes locked in a dangerous challenge, Peter’s lips twitching just a little, subtle enough to give Quentin the go-ahead.

All bets were off.

The next rip tore just as easily as the first, the one on his chest, splitting on the left side low enough to expose a nipple, just as hard as the rest of him. Peter hissed when Quentin’s mouth found it, flicking gently with his tongue right before clamping down, careful to use only his blunt teeth.

“Oh shit,” Peter huffed out, hand finding Quentin’s hair in their search for purchase. He held on tight, keeping him there to suck and tease. “Oh shit, Quen— _mmm_.”

“That’s it, sweetheart.” Another nip, another rip of fabric. “Beg for me.”

Peter shut his mouth, muffling a needy whine. He wasn’t gonna do it. Not yet.

Quentin raised. He’d kept his promise, Peter’s shirt was basically in shreds now, hanging on in tattered frays. He pressed forward, grinding the hard cock hiding in his pants against the dip of Peter’s hip, while his hand reached up to circle Peter’s neck, applying just enough pressure to make him open his mouth and gasp for breath.

“I said to beg for me, Peter.”

Peter fought the tears prickling behind his eyes, shaking his head weakly. Quentin needed to _work_ for it. He wanted Quentin begging for _him_ —just their last hunt when Peter wanted so badly to give in.

Quentin snarled, all fang, and reached a hand between them, grabbing a handful of Peter’s cock, straining painfully hard against his zippers. The touch was just about enough to make him give in, give up, and beg just like Quentin wanted.

“Look at you, already so hard” Quentin cooed. He found the button of Peter’s pants, popping it open with ease, tugging down the zipper enough to slip a finger inside. “I bet you’re soaked through.”

Yeah. Peter was willing to take that bet. Every twitch between his legs told him he was leaking, the dampness at the front of his briefs from something other than the cursed southern humidity. And Quentin was about to find out, running two fingers down either side, stopping to rub the damp spot at the tip.

“Ah, fuck—” Peter closed his eyes tight, head slamming back against the wall. He bucked his hips, chasing the sensation as Quentin pulled his hand away. “You—you asshole.”

“You know what you have to do.”

The air around him grew infinitely bigger when Quentin stepped away. Peter let out a frustrated groan, fumbling with the fly of his pants, unzipping properly and wiggling them down past his hips, just to relieve some of the pressure. He knew better than to touch himself, but the need was still there. Fuck it. This would probably go down in history as the shortest-lived game of cat-and-mouse.

“Please,” Peter said, insincerely demure. “Please?”

Quentin huffed fondly. “You’re such an insufferable brat.”

“Oh, please, Quentin,” Peter sighed, hamming it up. Quentin stepped back in his space and Peter melted against the wall, sighing again when Quentin’s hands roamed up the remains of his turtleneck. He raised his arms, allowing it to be pulled off and over his head. “Please—oh, _oh god_. Okay.”

Quentin palmed him through the thin fabric, squeezing and teasing, wringing fresh beads of precome to stick uncomfortably to his underwear.

Peter’s moans got a lot more sincere.

And his neck, now fully exposed, ached to be bitten. It’d been so long since he’d felt it, the sharp pierce of Quentin’s teeth in his flesh. The euphoria that overtook him each time, the twisting pleasure that felt better than any fuck they ever had— which truly said something when Peter knew for a fact Quentin knew how to fuck him better than anyone else.

“Quentin?” Peter whispered, cracked and hoarse. “I need you to do it.”

Quentin, who had busied himself with the task of tugging and stroking Peter through his briefs, stuttered. “Sweetheart, you know I got to hear you say it.”

Peter took a deep breath. This was always the hardest part, the deciding factor. The longer Quentin went without feeding off him, the higher that risk became—that they might not be able to stop. That they might go too far, and Peter would lose too much and Quentin would have to give some of himself in exchange, completing the cursed transaction. Or, Peter would simply die.

And they both knew that Quentin wouldn’t let that happen.

“Bite me.” Peter tilted his head, stretching the column of his neck. “Please?”

The first puncture was always the best. Blinding pain and pleasure firing through every nerve-ending in his body, lighting him up like a Christmas tree. Peter whined, feeling the first drizzle of warm blood trail it's way down his collarbone. Quentin wasn’t usually a messy eater, but it seemed with Peter, he always made an exception.

Peter’s hand found the back of Quentin’s head. He threaded his fingers through his hair, cradling him there, keeping his mouth pressed against his neck. “C’mon, that’s it—”

Quentin made a choked sound, but didn’t stop biting, or licking, or sucking.

“That’s it,” he repeated, though it hurt to talk. He just needed to hear something. His eyes were already rolling in the back of his head, vision turning fuzzy and black around the corners. “Don’t stop.”

No. He _needed_ to stop. Peter’s chest rapidly grew wet with his blood, Quentin’s hand coming up to slap his hand in it, slipping down in red streaks beneath the band of Peter’s briefs.

“ _Ahhh_ —fuck.” The hand around his cock jolted him back to reality, eyes bursting open, all while Quentin gave nothing but hungry moans against his neck. His vision blurred again, head throbbing where he slammed it against the wall. “I’m—shit, I’m close. Don’t stop—”

Quentin made a fresh bite, a little lower from the first one, and Peter saw stars all over again.

“ _Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop_ —”

In his blissed-out state, Peter entertained the thought of Quentin obeying him, of letting Quentin turn him like he’d asked to, pleaded for, so many times prior. Peter entertained the thought of _not_ rejecting the offer but giving in and being Quentin’s for a stretch longer than they’re allotted now.

They could do it. Right there. On the fifth anniversary of the first bite. They could make it the last.

Peter came with a cry, all over Quentin’s blood-slicked fist, doubling over and knocked the sharp latch on his neck loose. Quentin gasped for air, pulling back, eyes wide and black, mouth smeared and covered in blood—just like the first time Peter had ever laid eyes on him. Just as handsome.

He would always be that handsome

And as Quentin pulled himself out, finishing with a few quick strokes and grunts, Peter collapsed against the wall, the ever-present truth of their situation overturning any lingering pleasure.

Quentin would _always_ be that handsome.

“Hey—” Peter’s head snapped up. Quentin was already tucked away, wiping his hands against his pants. How long had he been spaced out? “Are you okay? I—that wasn’t too much, was it, sweetheart?”

“Hmm?” He touched his tender neck, wincing. The pain always came after. Peter tried to smile. “No, it’s okay. It’s just been a while.”

Quentin frowned, unconvinced, but he didn’t push. They were good at that, reading each other. He took Peter’s hand, pulling him from the wall, letting him collapse against his ruined, white dress shirt.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Quentin muttered, kissing his hairline. “I’m sorry about your shirt, by the way.”

“Nah,” Peter sighed, focusing on the broad hands that rubbed up and own his bare back. “It was a stupid sweater. Way too hot—you were right.”

“You looked good though.”

Peter didn’t have to try to smile this time. It came naturally, like everything with Quentin seemed to. The ball of dread coiled tight in the center of his chest loosened, just a bit. He craned his head upward, ignoring the sharp pain that blossomed, and awaited the soft kiss planted promptly on his lips. The ball loosened again.

“Yeah,” Peter agreed. “But I _was_ stuffy.”

“You know what will help?” Quentin raised his eyebrows. “A shower. You look like a murder scene.”

“Almost was.” The joke fell flat. Peter clocked the sad smile, faint as it was, and his stomach sank. “Wait, hey. You didn’t do anything I didn’t ask for.”

“I know. It’s just—”

“Just what?”

Quentin groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “Sometimes I don’t know _what_ you’re asking for. When you say things like—telling me not to stop? Peter, one of these days—”

“You won’t be able to,” Peter finished. “I know.”

“I’m not sure I could live with myself.” Quentin huffed out a humorless laugh at that. “Guess I wouldn’t have a choice though, would I?”

“Well,” Peter said, leaning back, stumbling a little. Yeah, he needed to get horizontal in the bathtub soon, before he fell out on the floor and made a bigger a mess. He reached out and took Quentin’s hand, giving it a little squeeze. But first— “When that day comes. It’ll be because I asked you to.”

_When._

Not _if._

Quentin frowned, eyes narrowing. Peter could practically see the puzzle working in his head. “Are you saying…?”

Peter nodded weakly, swallowed down the dry lump in his throat. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Peter, no offense but this _lifestyle_ isn’t exactly something you’re a fan of. You can’t exactly be a vampire, vampire hunter.”

“I’m a vampire hunter who is dating a vampire. I’m already breaking molds,” Peter argued. He swayed again, this time catching and steadying himself on Quentin’s bicep. “I should probably get a shower and patched up though. Shit.”

“Yeah,” Quentin said, a strain in his voice. “We’ll talk about it later. C’mon, I got you.”

Peter leaned into him, let himself be guided to the five-star shower and stripped and kissed. All while he watched Quentin move in a daze, smiling to himself. Because, yeah. They’d talk about it later, and later might be years from then—and maybe, in the future, he decides he doesn’t want to go through with it at all. But as Quentin helped lower him in the tub, beneath the cool spray of water, Peter knew whatever decision or impasse they came to, it’d be the right one.

They belonged together, for however long that time would allow.


End file.
